Law of the Undead

By Orville Burch

When Wayne Grant was a young man he accepted  a dare and climbed a high tension power terminal. He was shocked. The doctor said he had died, but his heart started again when he hit the ground. 

 

He was burned and scarred but alive. Most people in town thought he looked like a zombie. Even Wayne was convinced he was an undead.

 

While in his dead state, he had a vision that revealed to him his purpose in life was to be a Watcher. He was to watch over Rachel Law.

 

Rachel Law is a small town farm girl, who along with her best friend and, two cousins run a used bookstore, and investigate the paranormal.

 

When Wayne's own ghost begins to haunt him, he goes to Rachel for help.

 

Together they find out that his ghost wants her dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Orville Burch
• Release date: Aug 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201636340

Orville Burch

Orville Burch has dedicated his entire life to peeling back the curtains on the windows of the unknown. Growing up on a rural farm surrounded by forests and streams prepared him for a career in natural science. He earned a PhD in biology, while exploring the natural relationships of community structure. With roots in the tri-racial Melungeon people of the Appalachians, his interests in their life lead him to study with Native American elders and to travel and interact with several African-tribes. This resulted in the development of Warrior-Theme self-help based on ancient wisdom applied to the modern times: I Warrior. His interest in the unknown took him on adventures hunting cryptids, ghosts, and UFOs. He now writes paranormal fiction. He is the author of twenty-five peer-reviewed scientific articles, paranormal fiction, and self-help nonfiction. He currently lives in Pennsylvania where he writes, researches, and investigates the paranormal.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Franklin Furnace, Missouri

Twenty-years ago.

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Some events in your life you’ll never remember, others you can never forget. You’ll remember where you were, who you were with, and what you were doing. For me, such a memory occurred while sitting on my parent’s couch when I was seven years old. That was the night a boy, Wayne Grant, six-years older than me, electrocuted himself.

We were not close friends. In fact, I barely knew him. If he had not died, he would probably have ended up as a nameless face in the crowd. But Wayne died, and he was dead for ten seconds. Dying was enough to make him memorable. Coming back from the dead made him unforgettable.

I didn’t realize how obsessed the dead were with me. I was just a little girl interested only in stupid little girl things. I didn’t know that I was being watched, maybe even being groomed by them.

Back then, my parents would only let us watch television at night. It was a treat following a hard-day of farm chores, or schoolwork. I liked it best when it was my turn to pick a movie.

What we watching tonight? Chuckie asked.

Chuckie is my older brother. Older by two-years. Until he died, we had little in common. Mostly, we argued. After he died, he understood me better. Now we are friends. But his death would not happen for a couple of years. For now, we were typical sister and brother, harping on each other, every chance we got.

It’s Rachel’s turn, Mom said.

Yuck. Horror, Chuckie moaned.

I always picked horror, the scarier the better. Chuckie looked at me for the answer.

Day the Earth ___

Not that one again, he whined.

My turn, I watched your dumb one last night, I said.

Chuckie always picked comedy. Not that I didn’t like a comedy, but horror was always better.

I carried the big bowl of popcorn into our living room and placed it on the coffee table. Chuckie took his seat at the end of the couch, draping himself over the arm in mild protest. Dad dug through the box of VHS tapes, while Mom carried in a tray with a pitcher of Kool-Aid, and four empty glasses.

Kool-Aid? Chuckie asked.

Rachel’s choice, Mom said as she filled each of the glasses.

At least it’s orange, Chuckie groaned.

You can be such a baby sometimes, I told him. I can’t believe you’re older than me!

You’re the baby, he muttered back. He knew it was useless to argue with me. Everyone that knew me, knew it was useless. I never gave up. Never!

As the movie started, Mom dimmed the table lamp. I liked watching horror movies in dim light. That was the best. It made the movies scarier; but for them, not me.

Dad, what do you think happens to a dead person’s ghost when they become an undead? I asked.

Undead are not real. They’re just in movies, Dad replied.

Yeah... but if. You know the ones I mean, the undead things, like zombies and vampires. They were once living people, who died, and came back to be an undead.

People don’t come back from being dead. It’s a one-way street, Chuckie laughed.

Even as a little girl, I knew all about ghosts. Ghosts were always around. I’d seen many of them. But I wondered what happens to the ghost of an undead. I became so consumed by the idea that I read everything about the dead, and the undead. Eventually, I wasn’t sure if I was obsessed with the dead, or was it that they were obsessed with me? I guess in the long-view of things, the obsession part didn’t really matter. Regardless of where the preoccupation rested, my passion for books and undead things made me who I am today.

I know the movie monsters are make believe. I’m talking about the real undead, and the real monsters. The ones Great Uncle Cyrus talks about. Those kinds.

They ain’t real either, Chuckie said.

Don’t say ain’t, Mom corrected. And, stop arguing over silly things.

I looked at Chuckie and mouthed, Are too.

People tell me stories. Probably because I listen. I think I have heard all the old stories about things that have happened in our valley. I probably know more than anyone else.

The night Wayne died, we were at the part in the movie where the actress was about to signal the giant robot.

Fuse blew, Mom said as the house went dark.

Stay here, I’ll check, Dad said.

Hurry, this is the best part of the movie, I said.

Our fuse box was down in the basement. Dad kept boxes of new glass-fuses on top of the fuse box, and a flashlight at the head of the basement steps. But he returned way too fast to have made the trip.

Not a fuse. Auntie Kathy’s lights are out as well, Dad said.

Auntie Kathy is my mom’s twin sister. She built her house right next to ours.

Might come back on soon, I suggested.

We sat in the dark until the popcorn bowl, and the pitcher were empty.

Time for bed, Mom said.

That was the end of movie night. At the time, we didn’t know that Wayne was the cause of the power outage. We learned about that over breakfast.

I found out why we lost power, Dad said.

Our power went off a lot, so it was barely interesting to me as to why. Still, I paid attention as he explained.

Do you kids know a boy in school by the name of Wayne Grant? he asked.

He’s in eighth-grade, Chuckie said. I know who he is.

I’m not sure, I said. I didn’t really know many of the older kids.

Yes, you do, Chuckie said. He’s that really tall blonde kid that hangs out with the Mitchell boys. They go smoke when they should be in class.

Oh, him. I was only vaguely aware.

Last night, well the details are sketchy, but it seems that Wayne climbed one of the power towers over in the next valley, Dad started.

All the way to the top? I asked.

Don’t you be getting ideas, Mom warned.

Dad continued. I guess all the way to the top. Not sure. Anyway, he touched a wire...

That caused all the power to go out? I asked. This was getting interesting.

Yes. But more than that... I don’t even know how to say this, Dad paused.

Don’t be so dramatic. Kids will be late for school if you drag this out, Mom said.

He died. There’s no school today, Dad said.

Died? Like in dead? I asked.

Like there’s another kind? Chuckie said.

Kids... I don’t want you to get scared or anything. Probably a logical... Dad paused again.

What? Mom asked.

Gossip is that the electrical current killed him, but when he fell off the tower, the impact with the ground... well it must have restarted his heart. I guess he will be okay, Dad said.

I slapped my hands together. Finally! An undead, I exclaimed.

No such thing, Chuckie said.

I ignored him. An undead. Right here in Franklin Furnace.

He’s lucky, Mom said. Then she looked at me, Rachel. Look at me. Stay off those towers, she said as she pointed a finger. That was her serious I-mean-it-warning.

Wayne, the Zombie Boy, returned to classes after being in the hospital for a while. He was scary looking. Most of the kids avoided him. I observed when I had a chance, but only from a distance.

Chapter 2

Franklin Furnace, Missouri

Present Day

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It would be twenty-years removed, from my initial obsession, to the day I had my chance to investigate the ghost of an undead. That day was this day, the first day of spring in Franklin Furnace, Missouri. And, to think, I almost didn’t get out of bed.

Rachel. Having breakfast? Mom yelled up the steps.

Coming, I managed to reply.

It didn’t look much like spring, but I wasn’t sure if we had seasons any more. Two weeks ago, it was 80 degrees and Dad was looking over his garden seeds, like a little kid on Christmas morning. But this morning, the cold wind screamed as it fought its way around the cracks in my old bedroom window. The window survived the onslaught, like it did in the previous storms, and as far as Dad was concerned, they would have to survive a few more. On the farm, you don’t spend hard earned money on fancy double pane windows, when a good wool blanket lasts forever.

It was snowing, and not the wet wimpy flakes of early spring, this was like a late December storm, the kind that prepares you for a long winter. It didn’t matter if the calendar proclaimed winter to be over. Nor did it matter that the old groundhog prognosticator in Pennsylvania claimed spring would be early, or that Poor Richard’s Almanac confirmed the early spring. I guess no one took the time to tell the decision to Missouri. Just because the calendar proclaims it to be spring, doesn’t mean anything. We didn’t become the show-me-state by accident.

I forced myself out of my warm bed. I was getting so tired of wool socks and long underwear.  I wanted, so desperately, to wear a light and breezy dress, but not today. Today was farm clothes. Before going downstairs, I looked out at my truck. A large drift of snow surrounded my old M37. Should have parked it in the barn!

I shuffled into mom’s kitchen as it filled with the smell of coffee and bacon; farm staples.

Happy Birthday, Baby, Mom called out.

I knew Mom had been up for an hour or more, and Dad was already out in the barn milking the cow, and making sure the drinking water for the pigs’ and chickens’ was not frozen. Now that I was an adult, I didn’t have assigned chores, but I always pitched in.

I stopped having birthdays, I protested. I managed to say that much, even without my first gulp of coffee.

Mom gave me a big kiss and looked at me. My beautiful daughter. Twenty-seven... like yesterday...

I didn’t want to think about being that old. I knew I was in the best shape of my life and that twenty-seven was just a stupid number. Now, a stupid number that was a day closer to thirty than it was yesterday.

Did you have the dreams?

Mom always asked me about my dreams. Not that she was an oneirologist or anything. She knew I had far more bad dreams than pleasant ones. In her mind, the bad dreams would stop once I quit hunting ghosts. I never really told her about the real reason. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, but there are some things parents need to be eased into. For mine, it was a demonic curse. I’ve been easing myself into that for more than a year.

Not so bad, I said. I quickly changed the subject. I’m really tired of this winter.

It could be worse, Mom replied.

I had to smile. No matter what happened, Mom always thought there could be something worse. Someday I need to talk with her about the worst thing. But not today.

I filled my travel mug with coffee and ate a few strips of bacon as we talked.

You want me to bake a cake? Mom asked. She knew I didn’t eat Mara or wheat. For the past several years, I tried to stay on a Paleo diet.

How about pot roast, I suggested as an alternative.

I still knew there would be a cake with twenty-seven damn candles stuck on the top. It was her way. I sighed, Chocolate. If I was going to blow my diet on something, it damn-well better be chocolate.

Dad didn’t have time to dig your truck out of the drift. He left the snow shovel on the back porch.

Our back porch was enclosed and was the catchall for items not sure of their exact place in the house. Mom used it as a pantry, and there were always crocks with cucumbers pickling, and cabbage turning to kraut. Dad and I used it as a mud room. The old snow shovel, one of those bright-yellow ergonomic ones, leaned against the wall.

I kissed Mom on her cheek and went onto the back porch to retrieve my boots and coat. I pulled on my leather work boots and climbed into my wool barn coat. As I buttoned the coat, I eyed the shovel. For a few seconds, I actually debated about using it. Instead, I trudged out to my truck, put it in 4-low and blasted through the drifts. You don’t buy a bad-ass, four-wheel-drive truck, and shovel snow.

A couple years ago, my cousin Marl and I attended a government auction over in Jefferson City. I fell in love, and had to have, an old military truck that was built in 1953. It was rusted and didn’t run, but it was beautiful. It even had the original field shovel and ax still attached to the back tailgate. I guess I always saw beauty in dead things, and this was no exception.

I bought the truck for barely anything, then spent thousands of dollars renovating and gearing the truck. When this baby shows up, everyone knows that Rachel Law has arrived to kick ass and take names.

After blasting through the drift, it was just a short distance to Relic, my destination. That is my used books and sundry shop. It is only two-miles from my bedroom door. In fact, almost anywhere in Franklin Furnace is only a few miles to anywhere else. Dad tells me that all we need, in the world, is right here in our valley. I didn’t really question him, because everything I wanted or needed, we grew, made, or traded for. I grew up self-sufficient. I hated the hard work when I was a little girl, but now as an adult, I appreciate the knowledge that I have. I know I have within me the ability to survive. When I dwell on that, however, I keep circling back in my mind, Then how come you don’t move out?

I was an adult, still living in my parent’s home. But as much as I loved my dad, and as much as I hung on his every word, I knew there was more to life than our little valley and farm. You see, my last name might be Law, but I also got genes from my mom’s side of the family. They are Drakes. They trace their lineage back to the famous English explorer and to my great-something-or-other ancestor, Cyrus Drake. Cyrus founded our valley before Missouri was a State, and he produced enough offspring to fill the valley, and claim it as our own. Those are the genes that I have. Genes that force me to check around the bend, peek over the horizon, and under the bed. I have to know, I have to see.

From the time I learned to drive, I never sat still. I was always told that freedom was having land and being independent from the government. That might be, but when I hear the sound of my truck motor turn over, and feel the power under my gas pedal; well,... that is freedom. My genes took me from home to college; the first in my extended family to do so. They took me all over the world, and to Africa. So far, they placed me in a lot of danger, but always seem to bring me home.

As I drove to my shop, I thought about my journey in life, so far, and wondered where I would be tomorrow. For now, I needed to stay focused on the present, and help make our businesses successful. After college, my best friend Margarita Machuga, Mara for short, and I scraped together enough money to buy a burned-out house on Main Street. Family told me that I was wasting my money. They said that the old dead house should be torn down. But I didn’t see a dead house, I saw an undead house, and now it contains a resale shop that is way too cool, and very way too upscale for Franklin Furnace. We sell used books, vintage clothes, and cool antiques. Mom says we sell dead things; That damn obsession!

The shop struggles. On good days, we rarely get a customer, on bad days... well on bad days, I’m not sure what motivates us to open at nine each day. But Mara and I take turns doing so. Today was my turn.

I had no sooner flipped the sign on the door to indicate that we were open, than I noticed a figure huddled deep inside a hoodie, standing on the opposite side of the street watching me. I could only make out that the figure was tall and thin. I was pretty sure it was a male, and fairly confident that it was living. I stood back from the front window and watched as it made a bee-line to my door. I waited as I watched the figure approach through the swirling snow. I saw it walk up the two front steps to our shop and open the door. Still, I jumped when I heard the chime of the little bell that we had hung above our front door.

There, at my threshold, stood the town’s zombie, Wayne Grant. He didn’t look much different from how I remembered him from grade school. But then again, how much can a person who is skeletal thin, with hardly any hair, and burn scars on his face, change in twenty-years?

For a zombie, he was wearing normal clothes, jeans, boots and a heavy hoodie. He was covered in snow and he shook the snow off and removed his hood. Wayne was now thirty-three-years old. He was a few inches taller than my five-ten, and he was thin. I doubted he weighed as much as my one-hundred-twenty pounds, even if he was soaking wet, with bricks in his pockets. He wore his hair buzzed short in the old military style. There were patches of scar tissue on the right side of his head where hair didn’t grow. He had a large red scar in the shape of a scythe that started at his right-temple and ran all the way to his jaw. All the fingernails on his right hand were black.

Hey, Rachel, Wayne called from the doorway. It was not a hey Rachel like we were best friends, but far more genial than a zombie calling out to its prey.

Hey yourself, I called back. I couldn’t believe he was in my shop. I knew he was not really a zombie, but he had died and then came back to life. That kind of thing, the dying and coming back, makes you something. Maybe not a zombie, but special in a scary way, and not just in Missouri.

Can I come in? he asked.

I did a quick mental download. It was vampires that could not cross your threshold without permission that didn’t apply to zombies.  Of course you can come in. I actually heard myself say ‘of course,’ I was welcoming a zombie into my cute little shop.

Wayne actually took his boots off and placed them on the plastic tray that I had by the door. Then he shucked off his hoodie and hung it on the jacket peg by the door. "Domesticated! Must be a Mrs. Zombie lurking some place." I motioned him toward the green-leather high-back chairs that we had in our bay window area. Mara and I decorated the bookstore so that it would be homey and comfortable. We had a nice bay window where we put our seasonal displays. We had two matching chairs, and a Queen Anne butler table.

Wayne sat down in one chair and I sat in the other. What’s up? I asked, amazed at how calm I actually was.

What’s up? Wayne repeated and seemed to roll a response around in his mind before answering. Nothing, really... I need to talk with someone... actually, not just someone. I need to talk with you.

I shifted in my chair and tried to remain calm and collected. What about?

You hunt ghosts. Right? I mean, I know you do... everyone knows you do. You’re famous.

I’m not famous, but yes, you could say I hunt ghosts. You have a problem?

I don’t know, Wayne said. He slowly rubbed the palms of his hands up and down the arms of the chair. Not sure what it is?

Talking is a good first step, I said.

Wayne stopped rubbing his hands and looked right into my eyes. You’ve always been nice to me. How come?

I was taken aback by that comment. I hardly knew Wayne and rarely spoke to him. I’m nice to everyone until... well, until they force me to be otherwise. Why wouldn’t I be nice to you?

Because of what I am. Most people are afraid of me... avoid me... shit like that. You seem less afraid of me than anyone else. Maybe because you like dead things... or... I mean... I’m not really a zombie.

I suddenly felt bad. Wayne, I know you are not a real zombie. But you have to admit that you are different. I mean, how many people do you know that died and came back? I asked.

Wayne paused as if, in his mind, he was counting up the people he knew. That actually gave me chills. Finally, he just shrugged his shoulders. That doesn’t mean I’m a monster... I’m pretty stupid, and I guess damn lucky... but no monster.

I’m sorry, Wayne. Your accident happened so long ago. I was a little girl. I grew up with your legend. If I could have... I let that thought trail off. I really wasn’t sure what I would have done differently had I been older.

Wayne hesitated a second. Anyway. That isn’t important anymore. Spilt water under the bridge or some dumb saying.

I wanted to correct him, but decided to let it flow. I am glad you finally came to my shop. I have a lot of books about ghosts and hauntings. Are you looking for a book to read? In the back of my mind, I still could not help but think, ‘or brains to eat?’

I’ll be straight up. I need help. Can I trust you? Wayne looked at me with his cool blue eyes, searching for my reaction.

Sure. Not sure why I said sure, but I was a trustworthy person. I could keep secrets. Still, Wayne and I had probably only shared a hundred words between us in the past twenty-years. It wasn’t like we were friends or anything.

Not just a little trust, Rachel. I mean really trust you. You know, like trust with a capital ‘T.’ That kind of trust.

We hardly even know each other. You can trust me, but if you are going to confess to some crime or something...

No, nothing like that. He fidgeted around and seemed nervous, apprehensive. He looked toward the door, and for a second I thought he was going to get up and run from the shop, just wearing his socks.

You came all this way in the bad weather. Why don’t you get it together while I go get some hot coffee?

I must confess I needed the time to think about it myself. What would cause him to come out, in the middle of a snow storm, and seek my trust? I was thinking that nothing good would come of this, but then on the other hand, those damn genes of mine...

I returned a few minutes later with a tray holding two steaming mugs of coffee, and a plate of toll house cookies. I placed the tray on the butler’s table. I picked up my mug, folded my legs into the chair, and sat down. I looked at Wayne. He seemed nervous, almost frightened.  I gave him time.

I really need to talk with someone. I read all about you guys in the newspaper, Wayne started. I read every word written about you. Every word! It was really cool how you captured the Chocolate Man.

Thank you. I didn’t do it alone. I wasn’t being humble. There were many people working to stop the serial killer. I just seemed to get most of the publicity.

That guy was really sick. Sick with a capital S. I’m glad you stopped him. It was real cool. I joined the search parties, hunting for those little girls... we never found... I have my own little girl, Chloe, so I kind of know... I mean, know how those poor parents..., Wayne shuddered. Anyway, it’s why I’m here.

What’s why you’re here? The Chocolate Man? Your daughter? What?

I don’t know if it’s him... I mean, maybe it could be...  No. It’s not him... I don’t know who it is.

Wayne, slow down. Let’s go from the beginning.

Wayne